


Advent

by GettingOverGreta



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Pining Sherlock, Shush i know it's April
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-04-26 02:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14392482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GettingOverGreta/pseuds/GettingOverGreta
Summary: As the Christmas holiday approaches, Sherlock realizes that he isn't entirely happy with how his relationship with Molly ended up post-Sherrinford.  But he's also not quite sure what to do about it.  Holiday fluff for snarky characters.





	1. The First Week

**Author's Note:**

> One of my many guilty pleasures is the onslaught of corny Christmas movies churned out by Hallmark and other channels every year, so here's my take on a Sherlolly version. (Needless to say I meant to finish it a bit closer to Christmas but seeing as it snowed here the other day I'm not too disappointed to be posting so late.) Many thanks to Quarto for the beta reading!

Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on the sound of a low, sonorous note from his violin. Outside of his playing his flat was quiet for the moment, but that would be coming to an end soon enough. It was nearly time for Sunday lunch, which they managed to hold with some regularity despite interruptions for cases and such. Initially Sherlock made his way to John’s while 221B underwent repairs from the explosion, but after a celebration of the flat’s sprucing up, the weekly event gradually shifted back to 221B (which John pointed out was easier for Mrs. Hudson and more convenient for Molly). Sherlock had been surprised to realize he didn’t mind - no one was bothered if he disappeared from the table to play or to think and in fact Rosie often provided him with an excuse to do so. Mrs. Hudson was also happy to have John there again, and Molly almost always joined them.

Better yet, Molly sometimes came by early to chide him into straightening up the sitting room and getting all of his experiments properly stowed, and Sherlock could briefly pretend that everything was the way it had been before Eurus had shattered the illusion that his regard for Molly Hooper might be anything other than amicable.

Sherlock didn’t quite know what to make of the Molly situation (“The Pathologist Predicament,” in the language of John’s blog). Following the Sherrinford incident, Sherlock had presented himself to her, apologized, and then proceeded to explain about his sister. Molly's eyes grew continuously wider as Sherlock described his experiences at Sherrinford, the reason for his excruciating phone call, and eventually, the stunning loss at the base of the entire story.

He hadn't realized that he was trembling until Molly took his hands in hers. She'd become tearful on his account, and somehow even though he thought he would need to comfort her after that experience, Molly had taken all of it upon herself. In retrospect, her manner of handling his being in distress was one of the extraordinary but not at all evident things about Molly Hooper.

What he failed to discuss at the time was whether his declaration held any greater meaning than the words themselves, or if the love they represented differed greatly from that which he felt for John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, etc. As time passed, the idea of broaching the subject again seemed to become increasingly impossible.

Despite what Sherlock expected to be an upheaval of their relationship, Molly folded herself into her previous role in his life – his friend, Rosie’s godmother, Mrs. Hudson’s “tea” companion (“That wasn’t tea, Sherlock, it was a pot of vaguely matcha-flavored gin. I need to lie down.”) So he continued to work in the lab with Molly, even periodically kipped on her sofa or in her bed (he should really get himself one of those memory foam things). Her smiles remained bright and her scoldings perfectly pointed.

For his own part, however, Sherlock had noticed a certain hesitation. A thread of tension seemed to twist within him every time he saw her, as if something was just waiting to break free. His perceptions of her seemed altered, suddenly attentive to her physical person as something other than a stream of data. He could perceive that the skin of her hands was dry from washing with harsh hospital soap, and his thoughts drifted to what the pressure and warmth would feel like if she touched him. If her hair was tightly restrained, he wondered how it might feel if he released it, let it trail through his fingers. He anticipated her step on the stairs every Sunday like a puppy, and gave Rosie a run for her money in the sulking department on the occasions where Molly had other plans.

He had spent much of his adult life chasing highs and thrills, and now the sound of trainers on a creaky stair could make his pulse beat faster. It was a wonder that Molly hadn’t spent their early acquaintance putting organs back into the wrong cavities.

Molly knocked as she opened the door, toting with her a carrier bag that appeared to be full of greens, which turned out to be a wreath mounted on brass candleholders. She placed this on the table, and inserted candles: three purple, one pink. Sherlock switched to a slightly off-key and squeaky version of "O Come O Come Emmanuel."

“Very funny. We need to talk about Christmas,” she said firmly.

“Must we? You could have gone the chocolate route, much more fun. And why is that in my flat? Why do you even own it?” Sherlock said, twirling his bow and eyeing her suspiciously.

“It’s in your flat, because this is where everyone is, eventually. Look, we barely even noticed Christmas last year with everything happening; this is the first time that it’ll be a real holiday. That’s difficult, after losing someone. I’ve already asked Mike about some time off, Deepika was happy to cover -” Molly held up her hand as Sherlock started to open his mouth. “Yes, I will help if you need something for a case. But I thought…we should try to make it nice, you know?”

“The previous Christmas wasn’t exactly a smashing success, either,” Sherlock replied, and immediately regretted it. He wasn’t sure if Molly’s baleful expression was over the barbiturates or the murder. He swung his bow around to start playing again, but Molly stepped forward and grabbed the end before it could meet the strings.

That was new. Also intriguing, on some base level Sherlock thought he probably shouldn’t be exploring.

“No parties,” he finally said to break the silence.

“Agreed. They’re clearly not your area – not mine either, really.” Molly’s gaze dropped to the floor, and Sherlock felt a small pang of guilt over another holiday he’d managed to trample. “I thought, though, dinner and presents, just something simple. Family only.”

“Family only,” Sherlock repeated. Molly’s smile in return warmed him considerably, and she let him get back to his playing.


	2. The Second Week

“I’d forgotten just how tedious this is,” Sherlock grumbled, as he and Molly dug through a heap of scarves in case one of them might suit Mrs. Hudson. Cliché as gifts go, but per Molly sometimes the classics worked best.

“We could always pick up something in glassware instead. But we’d have to find a proper head shop,” Molly said teasingly, and Sherlock groaned. Molly finally held up one in purple and gold that wasn’t terrible, and Sherlock snatched it away to pay for it. Molly queued behind him with her own purchases for other friends, and the pair of earrings she’d picked out twenty minutes ago. They still had to find gifts for Rosie, but in Sherlock’s mind that was relatively easy – books and small pointlessly fluffy clothes were simple enough. He checked his phone while Molly paid for her items, solved two cases via text message and got word of a possible case coming up from Lestrade.

Molly looked a bit shifty as they sat in the cab on the way back to 221B, which confused Sherlock as he assumed it was related to her shopping. She had said outright she bought his gift online, and that he was not to attempt to hack her email to figure out what it was. (He’d scoffed at needing to “hack” her password, until she held up her phone to show him her Duolingo app with Irish, Welsh, and Turkish lessons in progress.)

“I found a reduced chocolate Advent calendar!” She finally blurted when they got in the door and set down the packages.

“Sorry?” Sherlock blinked.

“You said last week, I should have brought the chocolate kind.” Molly reached into her carrier bag and pulled out a square box covered in numbers, holding it out to him. A vague memory floated through his mind from childhood, of arguing about whose day it was with Mycroft. Was Eurus there as well? He couldn’t clearly recall.

Sherlock dragged himself back to his current company. Molly’s cheeks were pink from the wind and her eyes seemed to sparkle with good cheer, remarkably undimmed by holiday shopping crowds. He took the box from her and settled into his chair to open the door for the first day. Sherlock raised the piece of candy in a toast, and took a bite. The filling was a fresh cream that seemed to melt away instantly. He wolfed the other half down - he hadn’t even noticed he was hungry - and went to open the second door, but Molly pulled the box away.

“I thought it was mine,” He said with a pout.

“As if I’m letting you eat nine truffles at once. We’d have to peel you off the ceiling.” She opened Day 2, popped the truffle into her mouth and nearly moaned. “Salted Caramel. Amazing.” Sherlock smiled and moved for door three - a lemon and white chocolate truffle. Molly took the fourth day (dark chocolate and cherry jelly), and they split the twin honeycombs in day five. Sherlock was happy to take the “mince pie” in day 6, and Molly declared that Mrs. Hudson and John could take the last two...which left them with the chocolate behind door number seven.

“Go ahead,” Sherlock said, nodding at Molly to open the door. She plucked out the milky dome and took a bite. Her eyelids fluttered slightly as she took a bite, and he thought she shivered as the flavor melted over her tongue. Naturally, he expected her to devour the other half, but instead she smiled and held the other half to his lips, the scent of something sweet and faintly tropical hitting his nose. Her fingers brushed his lips as he opened his mouth, and let the intense chocolate rest on his tongue. He understood the shiver now - the flavor was passionfruit and Sherlock had never tasted anything quite like it.

Molly was perched on the arm of his chair when he opened his eyes (which had fallen shut in sugary bliss); he wasn’t entirely certain when she had moved to that particular position. For a moment he was keenly aware of her closeness, her knee only inches from his hand, and the pleasant, spicy perfume she’d sampled at the shops. Her eyes seemed to have him trapped, her gaze soft and sharp all at once in the dimming light. Then she hopped up all too soon, and he felt a slight chill at her distance.

“Goodness, I need some tea, don’t you? No sugar, though.” She disappeared into his kitchen, as comfortable as if she lived there.

That night he had a dream about nine strategically placed chocolates so salacious that he had difficulty looking at Molly the next day.


	3. Gaudete Sunday

With just a little over a week remaining until Christmas, Sherlock found himself dragging a small fir tree up the stairwell to his flat, John bringing up the end. He had initially been adamant that no tree was necessary, but somehow he had found himself talked into it via a bloody group text, a feature that in Sherlock’s mind was reason enough to return to communication by handwritten letters and homing pigeons.

_**Rosie would probably love it**_ , Molly had texted.

_**Rosie would probably eat it**_ , Sherlock replied. Somehow he didn’t end up winning the exchange. After getting the tree into the house, John helped him settle it into the stand purchased from the same vendor. The tree promptly dropped approximately half a stone of needles onto the floor, and Sherlock sighed.

“Doesn’t that look nice,” Mrs. Hudson said, clasping her hands. She brought Rosie up, who indeed appeared to be intrigued by the tree in the living room. “Such a lovely scent, too. Really helps make things seem like Christmas.”

“If there are any bats in there I’m letting them loose in your flat,” Sherlock grumbled. Although it did have a rather pleasant fragrance.

“Now comes the fun bit,” John said, and pulled an amorphous pile of Christmas tree lights from a box. Sherlock briefly pondered whether a terrible accident could befall it, or if Molly would figure him out. He pulled out his phone.

**_John’s here. Let the horticultural torment begin. - SH_ **

_**Oh no. However will you survive.** _

_**Sarcasm is very unbecoming, Molly. - SH** _

_**Maybe a little becoming. - SH** _

Sherlock stared at the phone, and then at his thumb, as if it had personally betrayed him. Did he just - why on earth did he say that?

**_Good to know. See you in a bit._ **

John cleared his throat. “Can you stop texting long enough to get this string of lights around the back please?”

Sherlock acquiesced, and worked his way around the back of the tree, squinting at the tiny clips and for a few quiet moments forced himself to focus on the task of getting the lights to actually light and stay on the branches he chose. He should have absolutely known it was a trap.

“I know you won’t want to answer this...but how are things with Molly?” John asked, which was when Sherlock realized that he was cornered and tangled up in several feet of light strings.

“What sort of things?” Sherlock tried to ignore the tingling flush at the back of his neck that tended to accompany any conversation regarding Molly these days. John glared at him through the tree.

“You know what sort of things. The two of you could barely make eye contact for a month, then one day she comes in here lit up like well - one of these and suddenly everything’s fine.”

“Do you have an actual point, John? Because I think this bulb is on the verge of lighting my shirt on fire.”

“You can’t seriously expect me to believe you both just walked it back. I saw you, Sherlock.”

“Some of us are capable of being ruled by forces other than our libido, John.” He smiled in satisfaction as he achieved an optimal color distribution in his current section. “Molly and I were friends and we remain so. It’s simply not that complicated.”

“I see.” John smiled pleasantly...too pleasantly. “Because I’ve been thinking. Molly’s kind, she’s bright, funny in her own way, and she already adores Rosie. I’ve been thinking about getting out there and seeing someone again so I thought I might ask - “

“What?!” Sherlock yelped, and nearly took the tree down trying to lunge through the branches. Rosie squealed in delight - she really did take after her mother. “You will not -“ John burst out laughing.

“Of course I won’t. But lord, Sherlock, your face.”

“ _Friendship is good for you, Sherlock. Really enriches your life._ My mother lied,” Sherlock said sarcastically, attempting to disentangle himself from the cord wrapped around his ankle.

“Just saying. The next bloke who thinks that won’t be taking the piss, Sherlock.”

Sherlock issued a grouchy harrumph to close the issue. They finally emerged half an hour later with sap-stained hands and Rosie giggling at them from her chair. Sherlock decided to follow in his father’s post-tree lighting footsteps and pour them both a finger of scotch, which was a moment of kinship Sherlock had never expected. He might even have texted his father to tell him so, if Siger Holmes wasn’t the last holder of a flip phone in the United Kingdom.

Falling into conversation, he and John relaxed in their respective chairs, punctuated occasionally by Rosie’s declarations and chatter. All was peaceful and refreshingly normal, until Sherlock noticed the sound of Molly coming up the stairs, and before he could even stop his mildly disinhibited brain, he sat up and for all intents and purposes craned his body towards the door like a prized pointer. Upon realizing what he was doing, Sherlock really hoped that John hadn’t noticed. He glanced over and was forced to accept that judging from the smirk and the raised eyebrows there was no such luck, which wasn’t terribly surprising when he was only about three feet away.

“Hello!” Molly said cheerfully as she pushed the door open. “And John, hiya. Hello, Rosie my girl!” Molly added, swooping in to peck her goddaughter's chubby cheek. Sherlock wondered, for just an instant, if it was uncouth to be jealous of a toddler.

“Good timing, Molly. Sherlock’s just got the lights up and this one’s got to get in a nap,” John said, and winked at Sherlock as he picked up Rosie and took her into the bedroom. What on earth was that about?

“You put the lights on?” Molly said, turning to him with disbelief.

“Yes, I figured – you’d want to decorate when you arrived, so –“ He made a flailing gesture towards the tree.

“They look lovely.” She gestured at the boxes of ornaments. “Shall we get started then?”

Not exactly scintillating conversation, but Sherlock figured that they might as well get this bit over with before dinner. They certainly wouldn’t have the energy afterwards. He remembered that he was actually the host of this event after hanging a few baubles. “Do you want – tea, or something?”

“If you’re making it,” she said, already distracted by vintage glass and crocheted snowflakes.

John emerged around ten minutes later, putting on what Sherlock thought was an odd attempt to balance keeping the door quiet and making just enough noise to be noticed. “Just put Rosie down for her nap. She wasn’t best pleased about it now that Molly’s here too, but we’ll see. How are things going?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “I’m making tea. Molly went to see if Mrs. Hudson had any biscuits. Were you expecting me to seduce her while you were in the next room?”

John sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Of course not. I was hoping you might - I don’t know, figure out a way to seize the moment. Take advantage of the mistletoe or whatnot.”

“The what?” Indeed, Sherlock followed John's gaze and saw what had to be Mrs. Hudson’s handiwork hanging over the threshold of the kitchen. How did he miss that? “Should I be concerned that my landlady is dangling poisonous shrubs from the rafters?”

“She’s only trying to encourage you.“ John narrowed his eyes. “And before you even suggest it, you’re not allowed to _eat_ the mistletoe to get away from your feelings.”

“You’re no fun at all.”


	4. Week 4

Sherlock carefully extracted a box of nicotine patches from Rosie Watson's questing fingers, to her squawking displeasure.  His goddaughter had become considerably more challenging to care for since developing the ability to propel herself around his flat, and Sherlock had realized with dawning horror that the flat actually was the death trap that Mrs. Hudson had always claimed.  He was watching Rosie so that John could take care of a bit of last minute shopping.

"What shall we do this afternoon?" he asked Rosie, who gave him an additional pout regarding the patches. "We could visit the park? I suppose it’s a bit chilly for that. Or perhaps read about that very tedious hungry caterpillar?"

_She does love that book. Not quite as much as Pat the Bunny._  Mary smiled at him from the yellow chair in the corner.

Sherlock frowned.  “Not a good time,” he replied. “Dealing with your spawn.”

_As if you couldn’t do that blindfolded with one hand tied behind your back. You’re much better with Rosie than you ever expected to be._

Sherlock scooped Rosie up and took her on a sort of “I Spy” tour of the living room, pointing to Billy the skull and the dagger she mustn’t touch and Ferdinand the bison.  Mary’s occasional appearances in his mind palace felt different from others - sometimes they were very reasonable, when he was researching child development or firearms. At other times, she seemed to just _appear_ , as if part of his mind palace had been rented out to a new tenant.

_Molly’s coming by later, isn’t she? It’s Sunday._

“Yes, she’s coming to make final arrangements for the propaganda campaign.” He turned to Rosie. “When you’re a bit older, the idea of a man who can see everything you do sneaking into your house in the middle of the night will become a bit more unsettling. Particularly if you know Mycroft.”

Rosie just giggled and tried to grab his nose.

_Your parents are coming on Christmas Day as well._

“Yes, couldn’t come up with an excuse not to have them quickly enough.”

_Fibbing, Sherlock._  Mary was every bit as incisive in his mind palace as she had been in real life.

“Things are different, since - “ Sherlock paused to put Rosie down on her mat, and ruffled his hands through his hair. “Finding out about Eurus. And Victor.  Looking under all the rocks, I suppose. Not pleasant exactly, just...better.”

He sighed and handed Rosie a board book, which she immediately stuck in her mouth. “Also, I suspect my mother has about twelve presents for Rosie and she would like to deliver them in person.”

_Your mother was very kind to me._

“She was, wasn’t she? Won’t tell her about the shooting, of course. Although I could probably make an announcement while she takes in the decoration and it won’t even register.”

His flat was now bedecked with greenery and fairy lights, the thoroughly decorated tree (now a subject of sap and bark analysis) and other small touches.  Sherlock vetoed popcorn chains at the first mention because frolicking mice were only appealing in animated films. Even Mrs. Hudson had to concede that particular point.

_And yet the humbug to end all humbugs continues to lurk._

“Ugh. People,” he muttered. “Present company excepted, of course.” Rosie flung herself in his direction with a shriek, tumbling into his arms with surprising force.  His phone chimed with a text from Molly, who was letting him know that she was coming by after her shift to make “finishing touches” before tomorrow. How that was possible when every inch of the flat was already festooned was beyond him.  Then she’d be back again tomorrow with John and Rosie. Plus his family. People and noise and presents.

_There’s that humbug again. What are you going to do about it?_

_**See you soon** _ , he replied, and pocketed his phone.  “Not a bloody thing, apparently,” he muttered.

When Molly arrived three hours later, with a carrier bag full of gifts and other Christmas bits and bobs, Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa, enjoying the mildly comatose state that followed his energetic goddaughter’s visits. As he watched her shrug off her bulky coat, he remembered the last time she’d arrived at his flat so burdened.

_The good news is, you probably can’t do worse than that._

Sherlock had really hoped Mary would be gone by now.

“When you texted back I thought you were going to tell me to piss off because you didn’t want to see people when you had to see them tomorrow,” Molly said.

“You’re not people,” he replied, shifting his legs to give her a place to sit down.  “What are we doing?”

Molly blinked. Apparently she hadn’t been expecting that he was actually going to help.  “Um. I was going to lay things out for us to set the table tomorrow. Hanging stockings, that sort of thing.” She looked a bit sheepish. “And maybe we could get a takeaway? I was in such a hurry to get over here I sort of forgot to eat.”

“Of course. We usually have dinner together on Sundays,” Sherlock said with a shrug, and pulled out his phone to find an open restaurant.

Mrs. Hudson politely declined to join them for a curry, claiming her hip was acting up.  Molly lit the last purple candle in her wreath, and Sherlock watched the flames’ shadows flicker across her face.  He hadn’t spent much time considering the wreath - merely shoved it to the side when it was in the way of his equipment.  Naturally Molly had purchased new candles, but the wreath’s plastic showed slight signs of fading, there were one or two empty pegs have must have held plastic holly berries at one point, and the brass frame was actually slightly bent.

“That belonged to your family,” Sherlock said abruptly. Rather obvious deduction, Molly herself wasn’t religious.  She didn’t look at him as she spoke.

“Wondered when you’d get around to it.”

Sherlock fidgeted with a plastic leaf. “Just something I’m trying out, letting people tell me things instead of announcing them. You weren’t cooperating.” He saw the faintest hint of a smile at that.

“My dad would light it every night during Advent. I always liked seeing the holiday get closer and closer...I did it for him, when he was sick. He still wanted it out, even if he wasn’t sure he’d see the end.”

_Not sure that making her profoundly sad is that much better than humiliating her in front of your friends._

Sherlock bit his tongue to keep himself from telling Mary to be quiet.  “But you still like Christmas.”

“I do. We all need a little light in the winter, I suppose.” She looked up, one side of her mouth quirking into a smile. “Most of us do, anyway. You might be a mushroom.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I was aiming for vampire.” Still he laughed, and for just a moment he felt like the losses and mistakes of the last two years hadn’t happened at all.

He never dared to wonder what might have happened, if Lady Smallwood had never put him on Magnussen’s scent. If he hadn’t needed the case...would Eurus have pushed her way into his world anyway? Did they still lose Mary, because all roads truly do lead to Samarra?

Perhaps in that version of his life, he manages to let other people see how he feels about the woman standing in front of him, instead of keeping it so hidden that his own best friend didn’t have a clue until his emotions were torn into thousands of pine splinters on the floor of Eurus’ torture chamber.

He wasn't that man though, and he was selfish enough to want this particular moment to himself.

“You should open your present,” he said quickly, “It’s under the tree.”

“Isn’t that cheating?” Molly asked, lips quirking into a smile.

“I won’t tell if you won't. Go ahead, I can tell you want to know.”

Molly pulled the gift from beneath the tree, clearly curious about the large box. She was a wrapping paper peeler, as it turned out, taking it off so carefully that it could practically be reused.

“Sherlock, that’s lovely! I've been meaning to get one of these.” He’d picked out a portable turntable, in a 1950’s mint green that would fit right into her living room.

“I noticed that you had a shelf full of vinyl records but no player. Some were clearly your father’s, but others -”

Molly grinned. “My father was not a fan of INXS.  Thank you, it’s perfect, Sherlock. Maybe I’ll bring some records tomorrow.”

“Oh - of course. Or you could take it, if you like.”

“Oh, no. Not giving you an excuse to be antisocial and play the violin all day.  Besides which, it's actually very thoughtful of you and I want to brag a bit about that."

Pride puffed up in Sherlock's chest and he wanted to tell her how much she deserved thoughtfulness, but in the end he just couldn't help himself. “Antisocial actually means - “

“I know what it technically means, and you’re not doing that either.”

_Oh, she is good._


	5. Christmas Day

Christmas morning, Sherlock blearily opened his front door to find Molly wearing a festive jumper that he was choosing to take as a personal insult.

 _Honestly, if you’d taken John’s advice, you'd have several options for getting her out of it_ , a voice that sounded suspiciously like Irene Adler whispered through his head.  Sherlock responded to the thought by slamming that door of his mind palace quite sharply. 

Mercifully, Molly changed out of the worst Christmas jumper on earth before lunch, once she had finished helping Mrs. Hudson with the cooking and completed her table setting efforts. (Sherlock folded the serviettes; she was duly impressed.) 

Less mercifully, she changed into a vintage green velvet party dress that made him want to throw everyone out so he could dance with her in the living room.  And regrettably, while Molly did bring a few records with her, there simply wasn’t time before everyone else arrived. 

“You’d never know you incinerate eyeballs on this table,” she said proudly. 

“Maybe don’t mention that in front of his parents,” John said, hauling a case of wine onto the counter. “Mrs. Hudson said Mycroft sent this.  The note said the malbec is especially for Molly.” 

“My favorite. Wait, why does he know that?” She frowned.

“You see, Watson?” He addressed Rosie, currently toddling after her father. “‘He sees you when you’re sleeping’ is all fun and games till Santa’s researched your grocery receipts.”

His parents arrived shortly afterwards, and there was much greeting and coat shuffling and lightly enforced hugging. Sherlock felt oddly nervous and ever so slightly adolescent again as he introduced his parents to Molly, the feeling made worse by their unsettling expressions of delight.

 _In fairness Sherlock, I think they weren't sure you know what a girl is. A living one, at least._ Mary seemed to have acquired a red dress and a pint in an attempt at keeping his mind palace festive.

“Don’t you look lovely? Just like Rosemary Clooney in White Christmas,” his mother cooed to Molly.

“Really? I’ve never seen it.”

“Oh, we watch it every year. Even Sherlock liked it as a boy.” Sherlock froze at the mention of the movie, faintly recalling a movie on the boxy television, colorful and full of music - and a scene with dancing, his parents taking a turn around the living room as the characters on screen bantered.

 _Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models,_ Mary droned in an eerie impersonation. _And apparently so is romance._

Dinner proceeded smoothly after a slight delay - Sherlock wasn’t sure what happened down in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen but Molly muttered something about “Julia Child said it was fine so we’ll live.”  Mycroft’s wine was a perfect match (save Molly’s bottle, which Sherlock hid at the back of a cabinet). After dinner, Sherlock played the violin, including what he felt was a reasonable approximation of Mrs. Hudson’s request of “Christmas in New York.” Molly’s eyes were sparkling when he finished, and he tried not to kick himself for immediately looking for her reaction.  Lestrade dropped by for dessert and coffee (with a wee dram poured in it, no doubt). Wiggins turned up, looking surprisingly presentable. Gifts were presented, and Rosie shredded her weight in wrapping paper. Around eight o’clock, John decided to take Rosie home when she started to fuss, which miraculously caused everyone else to decide it was time to be on their way.

Sherlock stepped into the kitchen to get coats that were in his bedroom, where Molly was quickly packing up some leftovers. “Will you stay for a bit? If you wouldn’t mind.” Sherlock asked before his brain could catch up and question the wisdom of what he was saying.

Molly’s brow furrowed in a slight frown, but she nodded, gave him a crooked smile, and tucked the plastic containers in a bag for Wiggins.

Miraculously, all of the guests departed without any excessive lingering, although Sherlock thought they all wished each other a Merry Christmas at least ten times.  Perhaps it only seemed that way as the goodbyes were exchanged and Molly assured everyone she did not need a ride, she was just going to help Sherlock straighten up a bit.  There were at least _three_ entirely unnecessary knowing looks.

Then at last, it was quiet.  Molly smiled at him, her eyes a little tired as she reached for an empty glass to take to the kitchen.  Sherlock reached for her wrist, making her freeze in place.

“I didn’t ask you to stay so that you’d clean up.”

“Oh,” Molly said, eyebrows raised in surprise.

 _Christ, Sherlock, she really doesn’t think much of you, does she?_ Sherlock tried to blink Mary away, not now, he finally had a chance to just talk to Molly.

“I’m glad you asked though, Sherlock.” Molly settled onto John’s chair, smoothing her skirt.  “I know it must be a difficult night. The first year always is – I remember how awful Christmas was after my dad died. I’m glad you said something instead of just trying to muddle through alone.”

Sherlock blinked. Molly’s kindness could be as sharp as her scalpel.  He had been missing Mary but it was so much easier to be irritable about a tree and tinsel than to think about her actual absence.

And she was now absent, as if Molly’s words had taken that odd comfort away.

“I wasn’t thinking of using something, if that’s worrying you. I think I learned my lesson about Christmas and heavy narcotics.” The words came out more brusquely than he would have liked, and Molly’s lips formed a thin line at the mention of previous Christmas disasters.  “Sorry,” he muttered, letting his gaze fall to the little bows on the toes of Molly’s shoes.

Molly sighed softly, and after a beat, clapped her hands against her knees, jolting him out of the start of a rumination on how imprisoned serial killers were better at flirting than he was.

“So what shall we do?  There are specials on the telly, but you’d probably hate them. Although it could be fun to have you watch Love Actually and see how long it takes for your head to explode. There might be something left over from the party that we could experiment on. Or – “ She chattered on brightly, determined to find the right distraction for him, and Sherlock slowly realized the truth of it - she genuinely was glad that he asked her to linger just a bit longer. She could be with anyone, anywhere doing these boring, normal Christmas things and instead she was wondering if he wouldn’t like to create a series of small explosions in the microwave.

“I love you,” he blurted.   _Or I could just scorch the earth_. There was no ominous countdown timer in the room this time, although he could still hear Jim’s nasty “tick-tock” in his head, as blood roared in his ears.  This was what he’s been afraid of all along, that the feeling would just spill out and make a mess again. But he couldn’t take it back then, and he couldn’t take it back now.

Curious really, that the words were technically ambiguous, but Molly knew exactly what he meant with one look.  He knew she knew, because her helpful smile crumbled. “That isn’t funny,” she snapped.

“It isn’t meant to be,” Sherlock said. “It’s the truth.”  She looked at him, terrified, and Sherlock hated that he had ever made her feel so injured, that the threat he could joke about this even existed.

Molly shook her head. “No, Sherlock I know you care, but you can’t just say-”

“Molly. I don’t entirely know what I’m asking.” He bit his lip, painfully aware that only the truth was acceptable.  “But that phone call was the longest three minutes of my life and then I thought - what did it matter? I might never see you again. Even if we survived you’d probably never speak to me again, and I had just realized - ” He flexed his hands, almost feeling the coffin shatter beneath his fists again. “But then I underestimated you again, didn’t I?“

He took a breath, wishing he didn't have to say what he needed to say next, and shifted to the floor so he could kneel by her chair, close enough that his honesty would be unmistakable. “I have also been unreliable, arrogant, and irresponsible and if you think I’ve had enough chances to behave otherwise then I promise, we will always be friends, Molly.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly whispered. She sounded as though she might cry, but folded herself forward to embrace him tightly.  Her hair tickles his hand at her back, and he’s stunned to realize that it’s happened before, spinning her around in the hallway at Bart’s (he didn’t know he’d stored that detail, and he had to wonder how long he’s been fooling himself).   Still, he’s never had her arms around him like this, and if he never gets to feel it again he thinks it might kill him.

“I love you too,” She murmured, “But I need to think this over, Sherlock. Please.”

“Of course,” he said quietly, memorizing her body temperature through the velvet dress and the softness of her skin.  After a long moment, Molly pulled away, pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, and quickly grabbed her bag.

“Don’t get up - I mean, obviously you can get off the floor, I just - my coat’s downstairs. I’ll text you, I promise.” Her voice was thick, as if tears still threatened at the edge.

Sherlock watched her rush out the door and concluded that John was right - he should have gone for the bloody mistletoe instead.


	6. Boxing Day

Sherlock stared at his bedroom ceiling, yesterday’s merriment having given way to silence. No one was dead or imprisoned, and yet he’d still found a way to turn Christmas into a disaster. His lack of understanding regarding Molly’s reaction was not helping him in the least. He was ostensibly offering something she wanted, but the revelation that the words he had spoken at Sherrinford were genuine only seemed to upset her.

Sherlock frowned. Unless that was the issue. Molly had seen rather a lot of him over the years, and not all of it in very fine fettle. Perhaps she simply didn’t desire him anymore. He tried to remember the last time she had blushed under his gaze, or that he had caught her staring at any part of him that wasn’t his face, and found that he couldn’t recall. Sherlock also considered the context of Molly’s initial, rather transparent sexual interest, developed when he probably seemed mysterious and brooding, a sharp contrast to his current, rather shocking level of domesticity and goddaughter-wrangling. Could it be that whatever drew her to him in the first place had simply faded away?

Except if that was the case, Molly wouldn’t have hesitated to tell him so. She wouldn’t have asked for a delay, she would have explained herself, probably come up with a reasonable excuse if she feared the truth would hurt him.

Unless of course, that was exactly why she needed a delay, to invent such a thing. On the other hand, Molly never hesitated to let him know exactly what she thought of the questionable aspects of his lifestyle. A perfectly good excuse, ready-made, and she hadn’t used it.

Molly would never have given him hope, if she didn't think some small piece remained. He could trust that, at least.

With a heavy groan, Sherlock rolled over in bed, burying his face in his pillow. The means existed to cease this entire rumination process, a solution that whispered to him from every alleyway, every shady looking pub, every quick scroll through his contacts. But these days he didn’t really trust just anyone, and he wouldn’t interrupt Wiggins’ return to the land of the reasonably well functioning either. Plus with mobile phones everywhere, he risked ending up in a tabloid and answering Molly’s question for her, and that would only be the start of his problems.

What he really needed was a proper murder.

As luck would have it, his phone screen lit up, and Sherlock grabbed it before the text chime had even sounded.

For the first time that morning he was relieved to be alone, because rather than chime, his phone let out a breathy moan.


	7. St. Stephen’s Day (Eastern Rite)

Sherlock stared across the counter at the rather incongruous picture of Irene Adler, quartering an onion while wearing a pair of blue jeans.  Everything about Irene made him want to  _ play _ , a certain frisson tangled up in a permanent, unending game of wits and...other things.  She was clearly still up to her costuming games, judging by the less than orderly flat, and at the same time there was something calmer and less flashy in her demeanor.  Being on the run could have that effect, perhaps.

Not that anyone would be particularly flirtatious while shoving several large potatoes through a food processor. “You do realize Hanukkah ended several weeks ago?” Sherlock asked, glancing over the local newspaper, half-unfolded on the breakfast bar.  And regrettably in Montenegrin - this region’s languages had never been his strong suit.

“Fried potatoes are always in season.  Here, pass me the salt.” Sherlock duly handed it over. “Not that I had time to get anything else ready, Mr. Holmes. I didn’t really expect you to show up to help me.”

“Miss Adler, you can’t dangle that much irony in front of me and expect me not to respond.”

“As I explained, I kept pictures for insurance, to keep anyone from interfering with me.” 

“Until you didn’t.” 

Irene shrugged. “Things escalated quickly.” She flicked on the burner, heating a pan of oil. “This is different. She’s practically a child and he’ll ruin her life. Those pictures would follow her everywhere.” Irene smiled. “Amazing what a girl tells her makeup artist, isn’t it?”

Sherlock glanced around the room, more chaotic than her house in London had been, shopping bags and various bits of clothing scattered around. “You work at a Sephora.”

“Among other things.  Now then.” She raised an expectant eyebrow. “What exactly are you hiding from, Mr. Holmes?”

“Sorry?”

“Must be rather serious, you could have easily  _ told _ me how to solve this little problem via text.” She plopped four pancakes into the pan and they started to sizzle. “Is it John? No, he’s hopelessly unadventurous in that regard. Ooh, that dishy detective.”

“No! Although I’m sure he’d be delighted to hear you find him dishy.”

“So it is some _ one _ .” Sherlock groaned at his own careless slip. Irene laughed, a sound like little bells. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever noticed it so clearly. “So you actually met someone new?”

He sighed in surrender. “My friend Molly Hooper.”

“Who?” Irene wrinkled her nose, “Did I ever meet her?”

“No, your ‘double’ did,” Sherlock replied, arching an eyebrow. “She works at Bart’s morgue.”

Irene pondered this for a moment, poking at the pan. “I didn’t meet her but I saw her. Pretty hair, lab coat at least one size too big.”

“She doesn’t actually wear it all the time.”

Irene grinned wolfishly as she flipped the latkes. “But you wouldn’t mind if she didn’t wear anything else. That’s adorable.”

“That’s not - I’m not-” Sherlock felt the tips of his ears turning pink.

“I know what you like. And you are smitten, Mr. Holmes.” Irene tilted her head. “She’s not, though, is she?”

“It is a bit...ambiguous, at the moment.”

“Ah. Simple enough, though, we’ll just take care of this, and you can go back to London and impress her with how brave and clever you were.” She scooped a potato pancake out of the pan and plated it with a dollop of sour cream. “But first, dinner. Literally.”

Sherlock jumped when the front door banged suddenly and a gangly teenager strolled in, chatting in Montenegrin and shedding handball gear near the door. She abruptly stopped when she noticed Sherlock, looking to Irene for an explanation. 

“This is my friend William,” Irene said quickly. “He was passing through the area.” If the girl was suspicious, she didn’t let on.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, and started making herself a plate of latkes. Sherlock looked at Irene, and suddenly everything clicked. Irene was not playing at the roles of several different women - she lived with multiple women, and one of them had a very big problem. Her client was no paying customer, but she was indeed young and something scandalous could make her life very difficult.  

All things considered, an alarming miscalculation considering he didn’t know anything about the presumed third woman in the household. The girl went off to her room and Sherlock waited for Irene to speak.

“Her mother’s a lawyer. We’ve been together for 18 months. Valerija is...understandably iffy on me but warming up, and I have to be discreet anyway for what I think are obvious reasons.” Her expression darkened. “Nonetheless I have to absolutely put a stop to him. Without any of it touching her.”

Sherlock smiled. “You’ve come to the right place.” 


	8. New Year's Eve

“My God, Sherlock, where have you been?”

Sherlock blearily opened his eyes to find Molly Hooper standing over him, looking like a tiny fury in a fluffy cardigan.  John was in the chair beside the bed, looking appropriately stern.

“Can’t really tell you that. State secrets. But Dubrovnik is lovely this time of year.”

Molly opened her mouth and shut it again once before speaking, briefly closing her eyes tightly and biting her lip. There seemed to be a small vein throbbing in her forehead.  “Mycroft didn’t even know where you were. At least when I asked. I think he knew later and just wouldn’t tell me. I thought - I don’t know what I thought. And that is such a lot of stitches. I can’t believe you thought I could fix that!” Sherlock blinked, the foggy memory of the A&E staff prying his phone out of his hand floating to mind.  Her fingers twitched, as if she wanted to reach out but didn’t dare touch him again.

“Yes. I really don’t recommend getting into a fight on a moving aircraft. Turbulence is real.”  Because Irene’s mark turned out to be only a small piece of a bigger problem and that bigger problem happened to be headed to the UK so Sherlock thought he would hitch a ride.  It was a decision that worked out for everyone except whoever was going to have to clean that upholstery.

“A scalp lac and that cut on your cheek. Three cracked ribs and a concussion, Sherlock! You’ve got to be more careful.  I mean, I know you won’t be but you really should.”

“Your client texted to thank you, by the way,” John interjected. “I’d delete her number, if I were you. Or keep your phone on vibrate.”

“I’m sure that’s...I don’t know. Maybe.” Sherlock looked at Molly again. “You’re upset about my face?”

“Of course I’m upset about your face! I plan to spend a few decades looking at it!” Molly shouted.

John’s eyes danced between them, and then he smiled smugly.  “Right. Just going to grab a cuppa, call Mrs. Hudson to check in. I’ll be back...eventually.”  He left, making a “get on with it” gesture at Sherlock.

Molly slumped into the chair John abandoned and scooted it closer to the bed. “I called you after my shift ended and you were already gone. I was terrified until John told me you had a case.”

Sherlock frowned. “You said you needed time.”

“I didn’t need four days of anxiety!” Molly scrubbed her face with her hands, which had the unfortunate effect of smudging her mascara. “When you said it again, I just...I don’t think I’d ever considered what it would really mean if you felt the same way I do. Then it was real and instead of being thrilled I was tired and sad and I already missed my family and Mary and it was....too much.  I mean, it’s not just coffee with you, is it?”

“I thought it was dinner.”

“Sorry?”

“Never mind. Get to the part where you love me too, if you please.”

She rolled her eyes before continuing. “You and I - we’ve known each other for years now, Sherlock.  We’re friends and we literally may as well be family. I just got overwhelmed because I never really thought about it - that it wasn’t a date, it’s being all in and - I am, Sherlock. _I am_. I’m sorry that I left you feeling even a little bit unsure about that.” She leaned over, kissing his temple tenderly.  Sherlock savored the sensation of her lips on his skin, and the strange, unfamiliar experience of someone apologizing to him for once.

“Do you want a date? We can have a date.” He remembered another song his parents played and started crooning. “What are you doing, New Year’s, New Year’s Eve?”

Molly eyed him. “Hope you’re enjoying that morphine, you’ve only got a few hours left and then it’s all paracetamol for you.  Honestly, Sherlock, you’re not twenty five anymore, you really should be more careful.”

“In fairness, the fight only caused the face and the ribs.  The flight attendant gave me the concussion. She didn’t take kindly to unticketed passengers.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Unticketed? How on earth did you get on the plane?”

“You’re probably not going to like the answer to that.” Sherlock glanced sideways at the bag with his belongings on the table.

“Is that - a pilot’s uniform?” Molly took a breath again and sighed. “You’re right, I don’t want to know. At least not now. It will be hilarious by Easter.”  She scooted her chair closer and reached out for his hand.

“Tell me about the rest, though,” Molly said, squeezing gently. He didn’t think anyone had ever looked at him quite the way she did at that moment.  He had never realized that even if Molly was fond of him, fancied him, fretted over him, she never fully let him see how much she adored him. It left him breathless and utterly speechless.

Fortunately, speechlessness was a condition that generally didn’t affect a Holmes for long.  Sherlock began rambling to Molly about the relevant aspects of his case, highlighting vulnerable victims and his own cleverness (while carefully editing any references to Irene, since she was technically deceased).  John returned with tea for Molly, and listened in on the story for a while before leaving to see to Rosie. They’d have to discuss exactly what could go into the blog post later - the last thing he needed was to disrupt the entente with Irene Adler.

Sherlock knew that if he called Mycroft, Molly would be allowed to stay until midnight, but even he had to admit he was exhausted.  Instead Molly turned off whatever pop music nightmare was blaring on the tinny television and gave him his New Year’s kiss at 10 PM.

“A proper one next year,” Sherlock promised.

“Holding you to it,” Molly said.  She bundled herself up for the cold again, and Sherlock let himself drift into a hazy sleep.


	9. Epiphany

Sherlock was released home the following day, and needed only twelve hours or so (most of which he slept) to realize that he had, in fact, cocked things up worse than he thought. His ribs were displeased by just about any movement. Worse yet, he was frequently bored, and yet all attempts to get un-bored resulted in a headache.

Thus Sherlock was stretched out on the couch, his head pillowed against Molly’s thigh while she read to him from a dog-eared, slightly singed copy of Treasure Island that she’d found wedged in his bookshelves. He couldn’t quite let the story’s imagery bloom in his mind’s eye, but that was fine since he practically had it memorized. Even if he didn’t realize that he did, another small piece of his memory sinking back into place, now with Molly’s gentle voice shaping the narrative.

He could do this with her forever, he realized, imagining Molly with reading glasses and her hair graying and bobbed. Her thigh would be a little plumper beneath his head, his ribs would probably still hurt on a rainy day. Rosie would be going into secondary school, John might have remarried because he really never learned, Lestrade would be retired, they would bring Mrs. Hudson _her_ tea every morning.

Molly’s fingers combed gently through his hair and Sherlock blinked, the present suddenly sharpening into focus. His mind was always running, thinking and planning and solving. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually daydreamed, just allowed his mind to wander. For that matter, when had he actually pondered his own future beyond the end of the next case?

“Sherlock?” He hadn’t realized that Molly had stopped reading. Sherlock sat up, a bit gingerly, and moved the book from Molly’s hand as he stole a quick kiss from her lips.

“I’m fine,” he said softly. “Really I am.” Molly was the one relationship that had never seemed to settle for him, somehow growing from something strictly utilitarian to a precious friendship, and then when he thought everything had finally stabilized, Eurus had revealed something he had failed to recognize.

He owed his sister a visit, once he had sufficiently recovered. That would be quite the conversation, even if neither of them actually spoke a word.

“Happy Birthday,” Molly said, gently tracing a line around the curve of his cheekbone. He’d barely survived to see his last birthday, how odd that this one had snuck up on him.

“It is happy, isn’t it?” He couldn’t stop himself from smiling when he looked at her, could feel his eyes crinkling at the corners. He wanted to memorize every cell of her face, every individual hair on her eyebrows and the faint lines curving at the edges of her lips.

“Very happy. Looking to be an awfully good year,” Molly replied, then kissed him again until he hummed in contentment. He could certainly get used to this, although he still had some time before anything more demanding was on the table. Which frankly, was further evidence for having cocked things up. Still, he was perfectly pleased with the prospect of kissing Molly Hooper and listening to pirate stories for the rest of the afternoon. In fact, if he thought about it - the prospect was just a bit too enticing.

“You’re going to ruin this by telling me how many people are coming for cake, aren’t you?” Sherlock asked, eyes narrowed.

Molly bit her lip, looking rather cheeky. “Maybe? But you will get to toss them out early since technically you’re still on restrictions.”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine. But there had better be chocolate.” He wasn’t about to admit that he was pleased that there would be cake _and_ people only two weeks after he’d endured Christmas and people. His reputation would already be in tatters when he repeatedly caught Molly under the mistletoe that no one had ever bothered to remove.


	10. Candlemas

As a feast Candlemas was somewhat obscure, but Sherlock remembered his father carrying out branches and garlands, chasing every needle out of the house for the second of February. Sherlock found himself facing the same task, the last greens on the mantelpiece and pine needles still lingering even though he and John had dragged the tree out to the curb weeks ago. (Regrettably, Mrs. Hudson had rejected his original plan to chuck it out the window.) Even the mistletoe had gone into the bin, having served its purpose well for the past month. He swept the last few needles onto the pavement, watching them dance away in a swirl towards pedestrians, then hurried back inside before anyone could find out that he actually knew how to use a broom.

Looking around his flat, Sherlock noted the small ways Molly had already started to make a mark. Her new record player hadn’t migrated to her flat yet, all the better for the occasional turn around the living room. A cardigan for chilly evenings hung over the back of a chair, and two boxes of nitrile gloves in the appropriate sizes sitting on the kitchen table indicated an upgrade in his use of proper PPE. He no longer had to guess at the softness of her lips and the warmth of her hands, because the knowledge was already inscribed on his heart.

Two months ago, he’d pretended to be content with Sunday lunch _en famille_ , and didn’t want to admit that he hoped for the smallest scraps of Molly’s attention. As much as he complained about the shopping, the tree, and the people, without those disruptions he might never have taken the chance on telling Molly how he truly felt about her. Not that he had any interest in getting invested in every holiday (local shop windows had shifted ominously to displays of red cardboard hearts and frothy lace - _ugh_ ), but he supposed that for Christmas, he would always have to make an exception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for tuning in for my fluffy Hallmark movie of a fic. I promise that if I ever write another Christmas fic I will attempt to actually wrap it up in the vicinity of Christmas!


End file.
